by Meg Maguire
The opening scene of Ong Bak started.
“Why are those guys all covered in mud?” Patrick whispered. “Is this a dirty movie?”
“Shush. Just watch.” Perhaps the subtitles would demand their full attention and cool the ridiculous, misplaced warmth Steph felt creeping between them. She had to be imagining that. Couldn’t be his body heat—there was still a good six-inch buffer between their arms. It couldn’t be infatuation, either—not this soon, not from this clumsy a wooing. Then again, it had been a while... Her defenses were weak.
They watched the movie for a time. Or in Steph’s case, she pretended to watch the movie. Though her eyes were on the screen, her awareness was purely on Patrick. On that tangible heat. On the mistake her body begged her to make, tussling with her resolve.
Then perhaps twenty minutes in, Patrick laid his forearm across the divide and took her hand. She blinked, too upended to say anything, to pull away.
Oh dear, his fingers were warm. A carpenter’s fingers, big and rough and capable. He beamed her a look, a sort of sheepish admission of guilt, a naughty boy wondering how long he might get away with something.
She didn’t dare squeeze back. Or rub his palm with her thumb. But she couldn’t seem to extract herself, either. For minutes on end, he held her hand, until their palms grew warm and damp and intimate. Until the movie’s epic market chase scene began, and then she was in trouble. One of the most exuberantly, joyously choreographed sequences ever filmed, and she was a goner. When Tony Jaa hurtled through the barbed wire, she clutched Patrick’s fingers tight.
She relaxed her hand immediately, turning in time to catch him smiling, eyes on the action. But every time something amazing went down—squeeze, squeeze, squeeze. They weren’t even at first base, but her body was already broadcasting her excitement, no matter if it was inspired by the movie. Or rather, please, please, please let him assume it was inspired by the movie.
There was a creak as Patrick planted his elbow into the armrest, leaning close. She should have been wording a brush-off, but the shape of his clenched arm distracted her.
One last time. One last taste of this flavor of man, a palate cleanser before the next course arrives, the next phase begins.
His mouth was close, posing its silent question. Steph was torn between two answers, two choices, two selves—her past and her future.
His lips quirked to one side, tense with unspoken words.
“What?”
“We’ve both had pretty shitty days,” he murmured.
True. She held her tongue.
“Personally, kissing you would improve mine,” he concluded.
She had to laugh. “I’ve been nothing but snappy with you this week.”
“And I’ve been nothing but dangerous to you.”
He meant bodily harm, but Steph found another angle. Dangerous to her plans, her focus; tempting and foolish as a drink when she ought to be one-hundred-percent focused on an impending match. “When is your contract done?” she asked.
“The second the security system’s a go. Theoretically, this afternoon at three o’clock.”
So he wouldn’t be coming back. This really could be a one-time thing, no awkward run-ins. She’d likely never bump into Patrick again.
She leaned in. He held her fingers tightly and brought his mouth down to meet hers.
Oh God, it positively crackled through her, this kiss.
Patrick might’ve been the worst electrician on the planet, but this hot bolt zapping through her veins was something else. It’d been a few months since she’d made out with a guy, but this excitement went far beyond the merciful ending of a drought. That damned chemistry, like she’d felt with some of her exes. Rough fingers making her nerves prickle, that honest scent of Patrick’s any-guy soap. Why did blue-collar men have to dismantle her common sense this way, and make bad decisions feel so frigging right?
Whatever. This was a farewell kiss—one last dance with her past before she moved on, once and for all. Goodbye to all the fun she’d had with the guys back home. Thanks for the memories, I’ll think of you fondly.
His fingers slipped from between hers, curling against her palm—even that simplest friction drew the breath from her lungs. His other hand came around to cup her shoulder, its warm weight drawing her close, leaving her reeling. His full lips were by turns firm and soft, toying with hers. He cocked his head and she obeyed the unspoken command, letting him in. Just the softest sweep of his tongue to start, a tease that strung a hot, taut ribbon of desire from her mouth to the tips of her toes. More tongue—a slick intrusion, sensual but with the slightest bossy edge. A shiver crept in alongside the maddening heat. Steph was a physical woman. She liked a lover who could get demanding in bed. Liked that intimate battle, and the rough press of a man’s fingertips at her hips or back or butt. Patrick’s touch told her, I can give you that.
The hand on her shoulder slid up, thumb pressed along her throat, fingertips tickling the nape of her neck. That hint of domination. Steph spent so much time fighting to maintain physical control in the ring that getting pushed around by a guy held a wicked appeal. When it came to sex, she happily shed her power alongside her clothes.
She had to rewrite a few of her assumptions about Patrick, kissing him now. His tongue promised precision, his strong hands possession. He was no galumphing puppy when the lights went down, she realized. Nothing in this kiss promised anything less than complete mastery.
The more they kissed, the fuzzier her brain grew. The more they kissed, the closer their bodies crept, each of them mashed against their armrests, legs cocked to the sides, aching to tangle. He held her neck with both hands, then one slid down her shoulder and arm to cup her bent knee.
Do it, her body urged.
Don’t you dare, her head countered, and she wasn’t sure which of them the warning was meant for.
Strong fingers slipped into the crease behind her knee. His kisses grew distracted as he debated, and she waited. Then it came—the softest tug.
She ignored it. A deeper kiss, a firmer pull. She offered the slimmest surrender, letting him draw her calf over the armrest. His mouth turned hungrier as he stroked her leg from her ankle to her knee. The next time he tugged, it was more an order than a request, and that distinction alone crowded out the last of her common sense.
Steph obeyed.
She let him urge her bodily across the divide, until her knees were planted on either side of his hips. Goddamn him. Goddamn these thick thighs between her slim ones, and the hardness of the muscles she felt flexing there. She braced her hands on the back of the recliner as they found their way with the kissing. Those big, warm hands were on her waist, begging. She ignored his pleas, locking her legs and keeping their crotches firmly separated. She was helpless enough from the eagerness of his touch. If she felt any more evidence of his excitement, she’d be a goner.
His plaintive hands grew antsy. They slipped lower and he stopped asking, and started dictating. He held her hips tight, and drew them firmly down to meet his.
She gulped back a groan. He was stiff. He was ready, and he could be rough, if a woman asked for that. She felt it in his grip. His fingers made promises, echoed by the hard length of his arousal, pressed to her mound. She could reach between them and find out if his cock matched the rest of his big body. Her palm found his shoulder, his hard arm, firm chest. Grab my hand, she beamed. Don’t just let me do it—make me do it.
She could hear his excitement in the pitch of his breath and the rumble of his low, soft moans. Those sounds fit his body, that deep baritone echoing through his frame. She could imagine it all now—broad chest, strong shoulders, roped arms bracketed against Steph’s sides in a nest of twisted sheets—
Careful. But Patrick’s advances were anything but careful. His fingers curled around her wrist. He didn’t force her hand, but he would, soon enough.
He murmured, “I haven’t felt this in ages.”
Shit, that voice. Those hot, needy wor
ds. They landed like the meanest hook, sending her better judgment staggering. You haven’t felt what? A woman’s willing body, or something far more dangerous—a connection like this one, crackling hot, lethal as lightning.
His kiss grew deeper, hungrier. It invited reckless decisions and wild sex, sweet soreness come morning and—
His phone jingled and buzzed and Steph shot up like she’d been Tasered.
She stared around the dim room. How long had they been kissing? Ten minutes? An hour? The movie was nearing its climax and she fumbled back into her own chair.
Patrick looked drunk, eyes unfocused. He cleared his throat and dug his cell from his hip pocket.
“Hello? Hey, John... Excellent, hang on.” He looked to Steph. “What’s the code to get into the foyer?”
She waded through the sex-fog clouding her brain. “One zero two two, eight two.”
He relayed the digits. “That got it? Excellent.” He pushed the footrest down, standing. “Head to the end of the hall—the door to the gym’s at the bottom of the stairs. Yup, I’ll stay on.”
The strain of arousal lingered in his voice, but he covered the more incriminating evidence handily, strapping on his tool belt around his hips.
The lights of the gym flooded the lounge as Patrick pulled the door open, heading for the exit, voice fading. “Thanks so much for coming, man. I sure hope they’re paying you time and a half...”
Steph blew out a long breath, feeling drunk. She tidied her hair and pressed her palms to her cheeks, trying to banish the heat there. What had she done?
Nothing. You kissed an electrician. At work, granted, and on the night you were supposed to be kissing a doctor. Just the latest in a long string of pleasurable collisions with good ol’ local boys. Harmless.
She switched off the TV, hauled Patrick’s recliner back to where it should be and grabbed her empty bottle. Leave no trace of this final encounter. She wouldn’t even remember it a week from now.
Then as she headed for the door, she cast a final glance at the two innocent chairs, probably still warm from their overheated bodies. Bad, bad, bad, she thought as she pulled the door shut.
She licked her tender lips, still flushed from Patrick’s demands.
Bad, bad, bad, and way too good.
4
STEPH HAD TO WAIT until the following Wednesday for her date with the hot doctor.
She’d held her breath all weekend, positive he wouldn’t call to reschedule.... On Monday evening she’d begun to think her chance was blown, and had even gone so far as to compose a casual email to feel him out. Just as she’d been agonizing over whether to sign it “Sincerely,” or “Talk to you soon,” or plain old “Steph,” her phone had buzzed. And five minutes of painless small-talk later, her date was back on!
“It was fate,” she told Rich on Wednesday morning, when he arrived for the lunchtime rush. He’d nearly perished of laughter when she’d told him and Mercer about the accidental lock-in with the now infamous Electrician From Hell. Naturally, she omitted the bit of the story where they wound up crossing second base.
She held a hand target for Rich to whack as he warmed up for the kickboxing session. “But at least this way,” she said, interrupted by a whap, “I’m out at two, there’s no Bruins game, it’s not snowing, my nose is back to normal... And I can go home and shower and nap before I meet him.”
Whap. “Plus you upgraded from drinks to dinner,” Rich huffed. Whap. “Where’s this fancy man taking you?”
“Somewhere in the North End.”
“Nice.” Rich turned to the members shuffling in and stretching on the mats. “Everybody do five minutes’ extra warm-up. It’s frigging freezing out there.” He turned back to Steph. “Plus this way he can upgrade you, if dinner goes well.”
She frowned. “Upgrade me?”
“Oh sure. Pass the dinner test and he’ll ask you if you want to continue this conversation over a nightcap,” Rich said unctuously, dark lashes fluttering.
“How do you know I won’t be the one determining whether or not to upgrade the date?”
Whap. “I’m just saying, this’ll be a good test. Unless you blow it, you’ll definitely get a second venue. What’re the rules, sex-wise?”
“You’re as subtle as your right hook. And if you mean the Spark rules, it’s no sex until the fourth date.”
He goggled at her. “Four dates? If it’s the right person, you won’t even last the night.”
She was inclined to agree with him, but their views on dating and sex were warped by the pressure cooker of their lifestyles. On the road, you might meet someone and the courtship had to be a whirlwind—you probably wouldn’t be in the same city the next week.
“I’m going to do whatever Jenna tells me,” she said. “She’s the expert.”
“What do her and Lindsey know about good decision-making?” Whap. “They wound up with Merce and me.”
* * *
THOUGH IT WASN’T snowing, the slush from the last storm had frozen into slick grooves on the sidewalks, so Steph stuck with her original outfit. If money weren’t an object she’d have gone for it—worn the dress she’d bought that weekend, a sexy knee-length number in a deep green that complemented her hair and eyes, plus some heels, and shelled out for cabs. But sadly, money was an object. As ever. Training was steady income and Wilinski’s subsidized her insurance, but it wasn’t exactly a high-paying position with potential for upward promotion. She’d saved every penny she could from her decade as a pro, and had nearly fifty grand in the bank—but she was determined not to touch it, short of an emergency.
After work she jogged home, took a long shower and a nap. Her nerves kicked in the second she woke.
An hour before game time, the hot doctor’s name flashed on her phone’s screen. Her stomach curdled. He was canceling. This date was cursed.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Steph? It’s Dylan.”
“Hey, how are you?”
“I’m fine—just finishing up at work. Listen...and forgive me if this is really forward. I’m out of practice at all the dating etiquette.”
“That’s fine. So am I.”
“You said last week you don’t drive, right?”
“Not in Boston, no.”
“Well, it’s freezing, and if it doesn’t weird you out to give me your address, I’d love to pick you up.”
“Oh.” She gave it a split second’s thought and decided his chivalry would be rewarded with a view of her legs in the new dress. And if it went terribly...she could afford to splash out on one cab ride to get herself home. “That’d be great. Thanks.”
She gave Dylan her address and he promised to call when he pulled up in forty-five minutes.
She smiled to herself as she changed into the clingy dress, thinking of all the guys who’d picked her up for dates back in Worcester, honking as they pulled into the driveway; of all the guys she’d had flings with on the road, a thumping fist on her motel room door announcing their arrival. Finally, a gentleman escort. No honking. No, “Hey, a bunch of us are gonna walk over to that bar on the corner. You want in?”
She swapped accessories and clipped the tag off the long wrap sweater she’d bought to go with the dress, practiced walking in her heels, applied and removed five different lipstick shades. She sprayed herself with perfume, then panicked that it was too much and dabbed at her cleavage with a tissue. She yelped when her phone rang at two minutes to six.
“Hello?”
“It’s Dylan. I’m outside—black sedan with a very nervous man in the driver’s seat.”
“I’ll be right down.” She gave herself a final look, discovered a tag still lurking in the armpit of her wrap, snipped it. She slipped into her coat in the elevator.
To her surprise, a very handsome, trim man was standing just outside the building, eyeing the street, rubbing his hands against the cold. His breath flared steam into the night air and he turned as Steph exited.
Were they supposed to shake? Hug?
She waved cheesily, but Dylan came forward and took her upper arm gently and kissed her cheek.
Oh, sa-woon.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I have a date with a man in a driver’s seat.”
He smiled, two dimples appearing. “I realized this is probably more gentlemanly.”
He led her to a luxury sedan—sleek and new but nothing too show-offy—and opened her door.
“Thanks.” She sank into the leather and Dylan circled to the driver’s side. With a final whoosh of frigid air, he closed them in blessed heat.
“I turned your seat-warmer on,” he said, starting the engine with the push of a button. “If it’s too hot, the switch is by your elbow.”
“Oh, thank you.” Heated seats—nice. Her last car had boasted a cassette deck and a single, broken cup holder. She took in the handsome console, illuminating her handsome date.
Black hair, dark eyes, a slender face with a sharp, interesting nose. A shadow lingered at his jaw, though she could tell he’d shaved before he left to get her. Probably with a straight razor and a fancy wooden lather brush, finished off with expensive aftershave. He wore black leather gloves with posh stitching, making the green mittens in her coat pockets seem impossibly juvenile.
“Thanks so much for the ride,” she said as he made a U-turn. “You gave me the perfect rationale for wearing heels in January.”
“It’s no trouble at all.”
“Have you been to this restaurant before?”
Dylan told her he had. As he ran through the highlights of some of the meals he’d enjoyed there, she pondered his voice. Not high, just a bit reedy. But it fit his slender frame. And no man was perfect.
Still, for just a moment she felt bossy hands hugged to her waist, heard words she’d sworn to forget. “I haven’t felt this in ages.” Her body gave a traitorous clench.
Quit it, dummy. Don’t mess up the most important date of your life, getting all squeezy over an electrician you’ll never see again.
This date would go well. So well in fact, there’d be several more dates, and in a couple weeks maybe she’d feel comfortable asking Dylan to come to her cousin’s upcoming wedding. Kind of a heavy proposal, but her cousin Kristy had been a jerk to her growing up. They’d been in the same grade all through school, and she’d always gone out of her way to make Steph feel like a loser—for her hair and freckles, for being a late bloomer, for dating “all those dead-end townies,” for having such a weird, butch job.